I was twenty-five, but Mrs. Mulvaney looked on all men as equally immature.
"And have you not got no friends?" she went on, but I stopped her with a gesture.
"Thank Heaven—no!" I said. "I am one of intellectuality's hermits. An educated man in London is like the bell-cow of the herd—a thing apart."
"You're a great fool, I'm afther thinking."
"The foolish always damn the wise," I answered, with an attempt at epigrammatic misquotation.
Mrs. Mulvaney heaved a sigh. Its very forcefulness recalled the nautical meaning of the verb.
"You'd be a sight happier outside," she said. "Holy Mary knows I wouldn't be driving you into the streets, but I'm worried you'd get cross wid yourself at home."
To get rid of her, I put on my coat and went out. Perhaps she was right; things would have been intolerable at home. Home! Such a travesty of the word! The sickly lamplight of Sloane Square was preferable.
"Merry Christmas, guv'nor!" said the road-sweeper.
"Merry fiddlesticks!" I growled, and gave him sixpence. I tried to avoid the vender of newspapers, but he spotted my fur collar with the instinct of a mendicant, handing me a paper and his blessing.